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mm'Mim 


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Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/beautifulsnowothOOwatsrich 


Oh !  the  Snow,  the  Beautiful  Snow, 
Filling  the  sky  and  the  earth  below. 


Beaatifal  Snow  !  it  can  do  nothing  wrong. 
Flying  to  kiss  a  fair  lady's  cheek. 


Beautiful   Snow; 


AND 


OTHER     POEMS 


BY 


J.    W.    WATSON. 

Author  of  "The  Outcast;  and  Other  Poems. 


ly/TH  ILLUSTRATIONS  BY  EDWARD  L.  HENRY. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

T.    B.    PETERSON    &    BROTHERS; 
306    CHESTNUT    STREET. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  In  the  year  1869,  by 

TURNER   BROTHERS    &    CO., 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States,  in  and  fur 

the  Eastern  District  of  Pennsylvania. 


Entered  according  to   Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1871,  h}' 

T.  B.  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS, 

In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington,  D.  C. 


OOE"TENTS. 


PAGE 

BEAUTIFUL  SNOW 7 

THE  SUNLIGHT  IN  HER  HAIR 12 

NO  LETTER 16 

A  MILLION,  ALL  IN  GOLD 20 

DEATH'S  CARRIAGE  STOPS  THE  WAY 25 

MY  PIPE 30 

THE  DYING  SOLDIER 36 

THE  SAILING  OF  THE  YACHTS 42 

"RING  DOWN  THE   DROP— I  CANNOT  PLAY." 46 

THE  OLDEST  PAUPER  ON  THE  TOWN 50 

DROWNED 55 

THE  SKATERS 61 

GIVE  ME  DRINK 68 

"IT  WILL  ALL  BE  RIGHT  IN  THE  MORNING." 72 

GOD  BLESS  YOUR  BEAUTIFUL  HAND 75 

FARMER   BROWN 78 

THE  PATTER  OF  LITTLE  FEET 83 

M4i935 


4  CONTENTS. 

OLD  NEWS 87 

MISSING:    PRIVATE   WILLIAM   SxMITH 94 

I  WISH  THAT  I  COULD   RUN  AWAY 97 

THE  KISS  IN  THE    STREET 101 

♦'I  WOULD  THAT  SHE  WERE    DEAD!" 104 

WHAT  I  SAW Ill 

"PLEASE  HELP  THE  BLIND" 116 

SOMEWHERE  TO  GO 120 

SWINGING  IN  THE  DANCE 125 


ILLUSTEATIOJSTS. 


"FILLING  THE   SKY  AND   THE   EARTH  BELOW." 

"FLYING   TO   KISS  A  FAIR   LADY'S   CHEEK." 

"MERCIFUL   GOD!  HAVE   I   FALLEN   SO   LOW." 

"DYING  ALONE  TOO   WICKED   FOR   PRAYER." 

"WITH  A  BED  AND  A  SHROUD  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL  SNOW. 


TO     MY     MOTHER. 


Merciful  God  I  have  I  fallen  so  low  ? 

Ami  yet  I  was  once  like  this  Beautiful  Snow. 


:  i 


J  ^    r 


BEAUTIFUL    SNOW. 

/^^  H  I   the  snow,  the  beautiful  snow, 

Filling  the  sky  and  the  earth  below; 
Over  the  house-tops,   over  the  street, 
Over  the  heads  of  the  people  you  meet ; 
Dancing, 

Flirting, 

Skimming  along. 
Beautiful  snow  I    it  can  do  nothing  wrong. 
Flying  to  kiss  a  fair  lady's  cheek; 
Clinging  to  lips  in  a  frolicsome   freak. 
Beautiful  snow,  from  the  heavens  above, 
Pure  as  an  angel  and  fickle  as  love  I 


Oh  !   the  snow,  the  beautiful  snow ! 

How  the  flakes  gather  and  laugh  as  they  go ! 


8'  ^-'^"        ..  V"  1  -y  '.BBA  UTIFUL   SNO  W. 

c  c  .»>,'■<-  ^C  ti.  I  c 
i  *•  ^"'^  P.^  >"  S  ,.v  >: 
•    ^'t    *"    I*  '-    I      "    •  ■:    i 

Whirling  about  in  its  maddening  fun, 
It  plays  in  its  glee  with  every  one. 
Chasing, 

Laughing, 

Hurrying  by, 
It     lights     up     the     face     and     it     sparkles     the 

eye; 
And  even  the  dogs,  with  a  bark  and  a  bound, 
Snap  at  the  crystals  that  eddy  around. 
The  town  is  alive,  and  its  heart  in  a  glow 
To  welcome  the  coming  of  beautiful  snow. 

How  the  wild  crowd  goes  swaying  along. 
Hailing  each  other  with  humor  and  song ! 
How  the  gay  sledges  like  meteors  flash  by — 
Bright  for  a  momert,  then  lost  to  the  eye. 
Ringing, 

Swinging, 

Dashing  they  go 
Over  the  crest  of  the  beautiful  snow  : 


Dying  alone, 
Tco  wicked  for  prayer,  too  weak  for  my  moan, 
To  be  heard  in  the  crash  of  the  crazy  town. 


„'  '^i.' 


BEAUTIFUL   SNOW.  9 

Snow  so  pure  when  it  falls  from  the  sky, 

To   be   trampled   in   mud    by   the    crowd   rushing 

by; 
To  be  trampled  and  tracked  by  the  thousands  of 

feet 
Till  it  blends  with  the  horrible  filth  in  the  street. 

Once  I  was  pure  as  the  snow — but  I  fell : 

Fell,     like     the     snow-flakes,     from     heaven  —  to 

hell: 
Fell,  to  be  tramped  as  the  filth  of  the  street : 
Fell,  to  be  scoffed,  to  be  spit  on  and  beat. 
Pleading, 

Cursing, 

Dreading  to  die. 
Selling  my  soul  to  whoever  would  buy. 
Dealing  in  shame  for  a  morsel  of  bread, 
Hating  the  living  and  fearing  the  dead. 
Merciful  God  !   have  I  fallen  so  low  ? 
And  yet  I  was  once  like  this  beautiful   snow! 


lO  BEAUTIFUL   SNOW. 

Once  I  was  fair  as  the  beautiful  snow, 
With  an  eye  like  its  crystals,  a  heart  like  its  glow ; 
Once  I  was  loved   for  my  innocent   grace — 
Flattered  and  sought  for  the  charm  of  my  face. 
Father, 

Mother, 

Sisters  all, 
God,  and  myself,  I  have  lost  by  my  fall. 
The  veriest  wretch  that  goes  shivering  by 
Will  take  a  wide  sweep,  lest  I  wander  too  nigh ; 
For  of  all  that  is  on  or  about  me,  I  know- 
There    is    nothing   that's   pure    but    the    beautiful 
snow. 

How  strange  it  should  be  that  this  beautiful  snow 
Should  fall  on  a  sinner  with  nowhere  to  go  1 
How  strange  it  would  be,  when   the  night  comes 

again. 
If   the    snow   and    the    ice    struck    my   desperate 

brain  I 


BEAUTIFUL   SNOW, 


II 


Fainting, 

Freezing, 

Dying  alone 
Too  wicked  for  prayer,  too  weak  for  my  moan 
To  be  heard  in  the  crash  of  the  crazy  town, 
Gone  mad  in  its  joy  at  the  snow's  coming  down 
To  lie  and   to  die  in  my  terrible  woe, 
With  a  bed  and  a  shroud  of  the  beautiful   snow 


THE    SUNLIGHT    IN    HER    HAIR 


T 


'HERE'S   an  old   stone  house,   on   a  lonely 
street — 
A  house  of  a  sombre  hue — 
And  day  by  day,  for  forty  years, 
I've  passed  within  its  view ; 
A  house  of  a  dead  and  mouldy  state — 
The  cast-off  shell  of  the   rich  and  great — 

It  frowns  on  the  street,  through  its  dingy  pain^ 

In  a  consequential  way ; 
Seeming  to  shrink  from  the  summer  air 
And  the  yellow  sunlight's  play. 

But  I  watch  alone  the  one  bright  spot 

On  those  dingy,  sombre  walls, 
Where  a  woman  sits  at  her  daily  toil, 

And  the  yellow  sunlight  falls. 

12 


THE  SUNLIGHT  IN  HER  HAIR.  13 

lave  watched  that  window  for  forty  years, 
Through    the  breaking  of  smiles   and   the   falling 
of  tears; 
I   have   watched    the    jewel   my   heart   has   en 
shrined, 
And  my  daily  prayers  bless ; 
I    have    mingled    her    name    with    my    nightly 
dreams — 
Fair  Josephine  Van  Ness. 


And  never,  in  all  these  long,  long  years, 

Have  I  spoken  to  Josephine, 
But  I  watch  the  sunlight  play  in  her  hair 

And  the  shadows  pass  between ; 
And  I  muse  on  the  change  that  time  will  bring 
To  every  fair  and  beautiful  thing ; 

For  when  first  the  sunlight  fell  on  her  hair 

It  played  with  each  golden  braid ; 
But  the  gold  has  gone,  and  the  gathered  locks 

Are  with  lines  of  silver  laid. 


14  THE   SUNLIGHT  IN  HER  IIAUi. 

I  never  have  spoken  to  Josephine, 

Though  I've  loved  her  long  and  well ; 
But  the  dreams  I  have  dreamed  of  the  coming 
time 
Are  more  than  my  heart  can  tell. 
I   have  promised  myself  from  day  to  day, 
Till   my   step   has   grown   old   and    my   hair    has 
grown  gray, 
That   when    fortune    shall    favor    my    efforts    to 
rise, 
Dear  Josephine  shall  share. 
And  the  dim  old  house  shall  be  bright  igain 
With  the  sunlight  in  her  hair. 

She  may  have  grown  old  to  other  eyes — 

To  mine  she  is  ever  the  same. 
Like  a  glorious  picture  mellowed  by  time, 
And  set  in  an  oaken  frame. 
For  many  and  many  a  toilsome  year 
I  lingered  in  passion,  or  shivered  in  fear. 


THE  SUNLIGHT  IN  HER    HAIR.  15 

Lest  some  who  were  greater  or  richer  than  I 

Should  mark  the  yellow  sheen 
Of  the  sunlight  dancing  in  her  hair, 

And  woo  my  Josephine. 

i 
But  the  years  have  passed  us,  one  by  one, 

And  never  a  wooer  there  came ; 

They  may  have  slighted  the  toiling  girl, 

But  I  love  her  just  the  same. 

And  every  day  I  will  pass  the  street, 

Though  she  hears  not  the  sound  of  my  lingering 

feet; 

And  every  day,  through  the  winter's  snow, 

And  summer's  waving  green, 

I  will  look  at  the  window,  and  wait  for  the  time 

I  can  speak  to  Josephine. 


NO    LETTER. 

/^H  HOPE!   thou  stolid  tenant  of 

Each  wayworn  wanderer's  worldly  breast, 
Can  no  alarms  before  thy  gate 

Erect  once  more  thy  warrior  crest? 
Hath  love  and  fortune,  long  deferred, 

So  palsied  all  thy  limbs  of  steel 
That  life  hath  nothing  in  its  creed 

To  rouse  thee  up  for  woe  or  weal? 

With  listless  feet  and  vacant  air, 

On  distant  shores  I  mark  my  round. 

And  scan  with  careless  eye  the  crowds 
I  meet  on  unfamiliar  ground. 

Not  gaining  by  my  worldly  lore, 
Not  profiting  by  stranger  hands, 

16 


NO  LETTER. 

My  heart  goes  back  through  weary  miles 
To  clasp  the  love  of  other  lands. 

One  daily  pilgrimage  I  tread, 

The  Mecca  of  my  stolid  hope, 
One  path  in  utter  darkness  veiled, 

With  hands  outstretched,  I  daily  grope. 
Before  a  portal,  prison  barred, 

My  shibboleth  I  daily  sum. 
And  watch  a  youth  hold  countless  worlds 

Between  a  finger  and  a  thumb. 


I  watch  with  eager  eyes  his  face. 
On  which  unmeaning  silence  broods. 

Bent  o'er  the  eloquence  of  man 

In  all  his  wondrous  human  moods. 

I  chafe  when,  like  some  mere  machine. 
On  Beauty's  missive  falls  his  touch, 

And  wonder  why  electric  force 

Should  not  unloose  the  vampyre  clutch, 
B 


1 8  NO  LETTER. 

Life,  love  and  death,  beneath  his  hand, 

Run  glib  and  facile  to  and  fro ; 
Stark,   staring  ruin,  sudden  wealth, 

Like  flashing  meteors  come  and  go. 
The  fierce  defiance,  greed  of  gold. 

The  cry  for  mercy — softly  cried — 
And  one  faint,  wandering  line  from  him 

Who  on  the  field  of  battle  died. 

My  turn  !     In  one  brief  second's  thought 

I  span  the  arc  of  changing  years ; 
My  heart  goes  out  through  boundless  space, 

With  choking,  throbbing  hopes  and  fears. 
I  think  of  one  who,  months  before, 

Hung  sobbing  on  my  burning  breast, 
Whose  words  still  linger  on  my  ear : 

**My  own;    my  heart's  beloved,  my  best!" 

I  think  of  how,  through  weary  days, 
I've  stood,  as  now,  before  the  gate, 


NO  LETTER, 

And  watched  the  human  form  within, 
Machine-like,  serve  the  crowds  that  wait 

I  think  how,  at  the  whispered  name, 
His  hand  went  deftly  to  the  spot 

Where  life  and  death,  and  love  and  hate 
In  waiting  lay — but  mine  was  not. 


19 


All  this  1  but  as  the  lightning's  flash 

Before  my  eyes  a  missive  lay; 
A  stranger  hand — the  seal  unknown — 

What  can  this  fearsome  letter  say? 
God,  give  me  but  a  moment's  strength  I 

Keep  still,  my  heart — the  seals  are  torn. 
One  line  alone,  the  rest  is  dark — 

'*She  died  at  one  o'clock  this  morn  I" 


A    MILLION,    ALL    IN    GOLD! 

npHE  gallant  ship  went  down  at  sea, 

Went  down  in  the  shrieking  wind — 
Went  down  with  a  hundred  souls  on  board, 

And  left  no  trace  behind. 
She  was  dashing — dashing  grandly  on 

Where  the  storm-swept  waters  rolled ; 
Her  freight  was  a  hundred  beating  hearts, 

And  a  million — all  in  gold  I 

The  night  was  dark  as  a  soul  condemned, 
And  the  scream  of  the  gale,  despair. 

The  shivering  crowds  that  clung  to  the  shrouds 
Were  raising  their  voices  in  prayer. 

She  rolled  in  the  dreadful  trough  of  the  sea. 
And  their  grip  was  a  desperate  hold, 

20 


A   MILLION,  ALL   IN  GOLD  I  21 

As  the  ship  went  down  with  a  trembling  moan, 
And  a  million — all  in  gold  I 

The  darkness  closed  on  their  one  wild  dirge, 

And  the  lightning  gave  one  glare 
On  the  spot  where  a  group  of  ghost-like  eyes 

Were  fixed  in  a  deathly  stare ! 
But  the  morrow's  sun  shall  kiss  the  place 

Where  lie  in  the  waters  cold, 
A  hundred  corses,  stark  and  stiff. 

And  a  million — all  in  gold. 

A  thousand  weary  miles  away 

Is  a  man  with  silvery  hair, 
Who  bends  o'er  the  desk  in  his  counting-room, 

With  a  pale  and  frightened  air. 
He  grasps  the  sheet  that  brought  the  news 

In  a  strong,  convulsive  hold, 
And  groans,  *'  O  God,  the  ship  is  lost. 

With  a  million — all  in  gold  I" 


22  A  MILLION,  ALL  IN  GOLD  I 

Where  flash  the  jewels  in  the  light, 

And  the  music's  master-tone, 
With  its  rich,  voluptuous,  softening  phrase. 

Makes  heart  and  soul  its  own, 
A  woman  sits,  superbly  fair. 

And  hears  the  story  told ; 
She  heaves  a  sigh  for  the  glorious  ship, 

And  the  million — all  in  gold  ! 

A  mother  gropes  at  her  daily  toil 

Till  her  fingers  cramp  with  pain, 
But  she  knows  that  her  days  of  care  will  cease 

When  her  boy  shall  come  again; 
But  now  her  task  will  never  be  done 

Till  she  lies  in  the  churchyard  mould; 
Her  heart  went  down  with  the  gallant  ship, 

And  the  million — all  in  gold ! 

The  mariner's  wife  has  kissed  her  babe 
And   hushed  it  with  a  song — 


A  song  of  hope  and  the  coming  time 

She  has  taught  her  heart  so  long. 
She  never  will  sing  that  song  again, 

For  the  sailor  stout  and   bold 
Went  down  in  the  sea,  with  the  foundered  ship, 

And  the  million — all  in  gold ! 

And  twice  ten  thousand  careless  eyes 

Shall  read  of  the  missing  sail, 
And  twice  ten  thousand  careless  ears 

Shall   listen  to  the  tale. 
And  all  that  careless,  listening  crowd. 

The  young,  the  gay,  the  old, 
Shall  speak  of  the  fate  of  the  gallant  ship, 

And  the  million — all  in  gold ! 

There  are  other  eyes  and  other  ears 
Than  that  careless,  listening  crowd — 

Eyes  that  are  weeping  endless  tears, 
And  hearts  that  cry  aloud  ! 


24  A  MILLION,  ALL  IN  GOLD  I 

Hearts  that  shall  cry  for  evermore, 
While  the  bells  of  life  are  tolled, 

For  the  glorious  ship  that  went  to  sea, 
With  a  million — all  in  gold  I 


DEATH'S  CARRIAGE  STOPS  THE 
WAY. 

.      A/fY  Lady  Clara,  rich  in  grace, 

And  rich  in  all  the  charm  of  face, 

Has  marked  her  course  upon  life's  way 
With  bold,  imperious,  haughty  sway. 

She  walks  embodied  Fashion's  queen, 
The  bowing  ranks  of  life  between. 

She  scorns  the  earth,  rebukes  the  sky 
With  spurning  tread  and  glancing  eye. 


And  thus  my  lady  goes  her  way, 
Still  stern  and  cold  with  every  day. 


25 


26       DEATH'S   CARRIAGE   STOPS   THE    WAT. 

My  lady,  lapped   in  luscious  ease, 
With  all  appliances  to  please. 

Drove  through  the  crowd  that  stood  amaze 
Behind  her  team  of  dappled  grays ; 

Not  thankful  for  the  summer  air, 
But  angered  at  the  vulgar  stare. 

She  sat  in  state  to  beauty  blind, 
And  stately  footmen  clung  behind, 

While  prudent  hands  her  horses  guide ; 
All  this  to  feed  my  lady's  pride. 

But  something  checks  my  lady's  course ; 
Amid  the  crush  of  man  and  horse, 

Her  carriage  stands  for  moments  still. 
Against  her  fierce  commanding  will. 


DEATH'S   CARRIAGE  STOPS   THE    WAT,       27 

Go  on  !"  she  cried  with  kindling  face ; 
Who  dares  to  stop  my  lady's  pace? 

''Go  on!"  she  cried,  yet  pranced  each  gray, 
Without  proceeding  on  its  way. 

*'Go  on!"  once  more  she  cries  in  wrath; 
**What  minion  dares  to  stop  my  path?" 

Then  hears  her  placid  coachman  say, 
**  Death's  carriage,  lady,  stops  the  way." 

Why  grows  my  lady  sudden   pale? 
Why  do  her  stern  commandings  fail? 

Among  the  guests  who  pass  her  door. 
Has  she  ne'er  heard  that  name  before? 

Nay !   yes,  full  well  she  knows  the  name 
Of  him  who  once  in  welcome  came. 


28       DEATH'S   CARRIAGE  STOPS   THE   WAY. 

Passed  in  her  loveless,  wedded  door, 
And  loosed  the  fetters  that  she  wore. 

But  now  the  mention  made  her  start, 
And  checked  the  life-blood  in  her  heart. 

Death's  carriage  stops  my  lady's  way, 
While  smiled  the  gorgeous  summer  day ! 

Her  carriage  moves,  the  moments  fly, 
And  man  and  horse  rush  swiftly  by. 

But  still  my  lady's  stately  pace 
Keeps  time  with  all   her  stately  grace, 

Until   before   her   portal    stays 

Her   stately  team  of  prancing  grays. 

And   stately  footmen,  from   their   height, 
Descend  to   see   my  lady  light. 


DEATH'S   CARRIAGE  STOPS   THE    WAT.       29 

Why  comes   she  not?     With  wondering   stare, 
In   silence,  gaze   the   lackeys  where 

The  open   door   invites   approach 
To   help   my  lady  from   her   coach. 

At   length,  one  bolder  than   the   rest, 
Stooped   low,  for   once,  his   stately  crest. 

And   peering   to   the   cushioned   deeps. 
He  whispered  soft,    «*My  lady  sleeps!" 

She   sleeps,  ay,  sleeps  the   sleep  of  death ; 
His  touch  has  chilled  her  stately  breath; 

His,  the  one  power   that   dared   to   stay 
My  lady's  carriage  on  its  way. 


MY    PIPE. 

\T  ^HAT!  sell  my  pipe,   sir?     By  old  Jove! 
Ha !    ha !    excuse  my  ill-seemed  mirth. 
Why,  boy,  to  get  that  pipe  I  clove 

A  trooper  to  his  saddle-girth ! 
What's  that?     Why,  more  than  you  have  done, 

My  white-faced  lad,  or  you  will  do. 
If  you  but  end  as  you've  begun : 

Mind  what  I  tell  you,  lad,  'tis  true  ! 

Put  up  your  money ;    this  old  pipe 
May  be,  as  you  have  said,  a  gem  : 

Whoever  loosens  death's  last  gripe 
Will  find  it  here,  a  prize  to  them. 

A  beauty  I   yes  indeed,  a  pearl ! 

See  how  the  rich  brown  color  glows; 

20 


MY  PIPE. 


3' 


The  blushes  of  a  pretty  girl, 

The  heart's  core  of  the  deep  red  rose ! 

Pshaw !    sell  my  pipe  !  the  thing's  absurd ! 

My  silver-lipped,  my  amber-tipped  I 
See  here,  my  lad,  perhaps  you've  heard 

About  a  pack  of  fellov^rs  whipped 
At  Gettysburg?     Well,  I  was  there. 

Where  showers  of  ball  ploughed  up  the  ground 
Beneath  the  footsteps  of  my  mare. 

Who  challenged  death  at  every  bound ! 


Up  came  an  order  from  our  chief 

To  take  a  belching  battery  nigh  : 
Our  captain's  words  were  sharp  and  brief, 

**  Forward!   which  of  ye  fears  to  die?" 
Like  one  united  mass  we  sprang 

O'er  abattis :  the  works  were  won ; 
With  one  wild  shout  the  hillside  rang. 

And  then  we  spiked  each  murderous  gun  I 


32  MT  PIPE. 

Just  then  a  cloud  of  horsemen  rushed 

Upon  our  rear  like  some  fierce  gust  ' 
By  very  count  they  should   have  crushed 

Our  little  band  into  the  dust. 
Full  five  to  one  the  squadron  came ; 

Thank  God !  we  knew  not  how  to  fly, 
For,  I'll  be  sworn,  each  felt  the  same. 

As  men  who  did  not  fear  to  die. 

Wild  was  the  crash;  the  shrieks,  the  yells, 

The  screaming  of  the  frightened  steeds  I 
It  seemed  as  though  a  score  of  hells 

Had  loosed  their  fiends  for  bloody  deeds ! 
Each  man  of  all  our  little  band 

Fought  like  a  hundred  men  in  one, 
Slashing  his  foes  on  either  hand, 

As  though  'twere  but  a  bit  of  fun. 

At  last,  with  half  our  comrades  slain, 
We  beat  the  foemen  wildly  back, 


Mr  PIPE. 

And  fiercely  over  hill  and  plain 
We  smote  them  on  their  flying  track. 

My  arm  was  hardened  steel  that  day 
From  shoulder  to  my  sword's  red  tip ; 

But  still,  no  blood  was  in  the  fray 
Of  mine,   save  from  my  bitten  lip. 

But  I  had  seen  my  brother  fall — 

Hewed  down  by  one  great,  giant  blow 
The  sight  had  turned  my  blood  to  gall, 

And  almost  checked  its  living  flow. 
I  bent  my  mare's  long  reaching  stride 

On  every  flying  wretch  I  scanned, 
Sworn  that  no  spot  on  earth  should  hide 

The  murderer  from  my  vengeful  hand. 


33 


The  night  was  closing  in  around, 
With  just  enough  of  light  to  see. 

When  suddenly  I  heard  the  sound 
Of  clattering  hoofs  not  far  from  me. 


34  MY  PIPE. 

I  tu'-ned  my  mare,   and  stood  on  guard, 

My  read}/   sabre  on  my  knee; 
My  listening  heart  beat  quick  and  hard, 

For  something  whispered,   "This  is  he!" 

I  knew  him  at  our  horses-   length, 

Though  but  a  gUmpse  I  had  before— 
His  fierce,  black  eye,  his  size  and  strength, 

His  hands  all  smeared  with  blackened  gore; 
And  in  his  tightly  clenched  teeth 

He  held  this  pipe  with  mocking  grin— 
A  grin  that  hid  a  fiend  beneath; 

A  murderous  fiend  there  lurked  within. 

He  stretched  his  head,  with  straining  eyes, 
Thinking  my  silent  form  a  friend: 

I  marked  him  for  a  certain  prize, 
And  grasped  my  sabre  for  the  end. 

Just  then  he  thrust  his  cursed  face 
Far  forvi^ard  from  his  saddle-bow, 


MT  PIPE. 


35 


And  with  a  pufF  lit  all  the  place, 
And  knew  me  for  his  deadly  foe. 

►ut  ere  his  horse  could  backward  spring, 

I  clutched  this  pipe  with  fiercest  hate; 
Then,  with  one  quick  and  desperate  swing, 

My  good  sword  fell — alas  !   too  late  I 
He  charged,  and,  in  his  fearful  haste. 

He  only  took  my  bridle-arm ; 
I  cut  him,  cleanly,  to  his  waist : — 

An  arm  the  less,  boy,  that's  no  harm  I 


>o  that's  the  way  my  pipe  was  won. 

Now,  do  you  think  I'd  sell  my  prize  I 
Why,  all  the  gold  beneath  the  sun 

Would  not  so  fill  my  loving  eyes. 
I  kiss  its  bowl  for  memorj'-'s  sake — 

The  memory  of  my  brother  Steve ; 
It's  presence  keeps  the  thought  awake 

Of  him  I  slew  that  summer  eve. 


THE    DYING    SOLDIER. 

OTEADY,  boys,  gteady  I 

Keep  your  arms  ready ! 
God  only  knows  whom  we  may  meet  here. 
Don't  let  me  be  taken : 

rd  rather  awaken 
To-morrow  in — no  matter  where — 
Than  lie  in  that  foul  prison-hole  over  there. 

Step  slowly ! 

Speak  lowly  I 

These  rocks  may  have  life. 

Lay  me  down  in  this  hollow; 

We  are  out  of  the  strife. 
By  heavens  I  these  fellows  may  track  me  in  blood, 
For  this  hole  in  my  breast  is  outpouring  a  flood. 

36 


THE  DYING   SOLDIER. 


37 


No !     No   surgeon    for   me,    he    can   give   me   no 

aid; 
The  surgeon  I  want  is  a  pickaxe  and  spade. 
What,    Morris,    a     tear?     why     shame     on     you 

man ! 
I  thought  you  a  hero;   but  since  you've  began 
To  whimper  and  cry,  like  a  girl  in  her  teens, 
By    George !     I    don't    know    what    the    devil    it 

means ! 


Well !    well !     I    am    rough ;    'tis    a    very    rough 

school, 
This  life  of  a  trooper,  but  yet  I'm  no  fool ! 
I  know  a  brave  man,  and  a  friend  from  a  foe, 
And,  boys,  that  you  love  me  I  certainly  know. 

But  wasn't  it  grand, 
When   they  came   down   the   hill,  over   sloughing 

and    sand? 
But  we  stood — did  we  not? — ^like  immovable  rock 
Unleeding   their  balls  and  repelling  their  shock. 


38  THE  DYING  SOLDIER. 

Did  you  mind  the  loud  cry, 

When,   as  turning  to  fly, 
Our  men  sprang  upon  them,  determined  to  die? 

Oh  I  wasn't  it  grand  I 

God    help    the    poor    wretches    that    fell    in    that 

fight; 
No  time  was  there  given  for  prayer  or  for  flight : 
They   fell    by   the    score   in   the    crash,    hand    to 

hand, 
And  they  mingled   their  blood  with  the  sloughing 

and  sand. 

Huzza ! 
Great     heavens !     this    bullet-hole    gapes    like    a 

grave ; 
A  cUrse  on  the  aim  of  that  villainous  knave ! 
Is  there  never  a  one  of  you  knows  how  to  pray, 
Or  speak  for  a  man  as  his  life  ebbs  away? 
Pray! 

Pray  I 


THE  DYING   SOLDIER, 


39 


Thy    kingdom    come,    thy   will— why    don't    you 

proceed  ? 
Can't   you   see   I   am   dying?     Great   God,   how  I 

bleed  ! 
Ebbing  away ! 

Ebbing  away  I 

The  light  of  the  day 
Is  turning  to  gray. 

Pray !   pray ! 
.nd     forgive    us    our     trespasses  —  tell     me     the 
rest 
While  I  stanch   the   hot   blood   from   this   hole   in 

my  breast. 
Say  something   to   smooth   the   rough   road   I  am 

bound ; 
I  am  galloping  fast  over  dangerous  ground. 
Do  you  think  the  good  Master  above  will — Pray ! 

pray  ! 
Can't     you     see     how    my    life-blood     is     ebbing 
away  ? 


40  THE  DYING   SOLDIER. 

Here,     INIorris,     old     fellow,     get     hold     of     my 

hand ; 
And,     Wilson,     my     comrade  —  Oh!      wasn't     it 

grand 
When   they  came   down   the   hill,  like  a  thunder- 
charged  cloud, 
And  were   scattered   like  mist   by  our  brave   little 

crowd? 
Where's  Wilson?     My  comrade,  here,  stoop  down 

your  head, 
Can't  you   say  a  short   prayer   for   the    dying — or 

dead? 
Christ,  God,  who  died  for  sinners  all, 

Hear  thou  this  suppliant  wanderer's  cry. 
Let  not  e'en  this  poor  sparrow  fall, 

Unheeded  by  thy  gracious  eye. 
Throw  wide  the  gates  to  let  him  in, 

And  take  him  pleading,  to  thine  arms, 
Forgive,  O  Lord,  his  lifelong  sin, 

And  quiet  all  his  fierce  alarms. 


THE  DYING  SOLDIER. 


41 


God    bless    you,    my    comrade,    for    singing    that 

hymn; 
It  is  light  to  my  path  when  my  sight   has  grown 

dim. 
I   am   dying — bend   down,  till   I   touch   you   once 

more — 
Don't    forget    me,    old    fellow — God    prosper    this 

war ! 
Confusion  to  foes,  but — keep  hold  of  my  hand — 
But  pray  that  peace  comes  to  a  prosperous  land  I 


THE    SAILING    OF    THE    YACHTS 

T  TP  pennon — heave  the  deep-sea  lead; 

Our  course  lies  to  the  sun  : 
God's  grace  to  each  stout  mariner, 

Until  the  strife  be  done. 
Between  us  and  the  restless  waves 

An  inch  of  plank  stands  guard ; 
White-bearded,  and  with  threatening  moans, 

They  follow  swift  and  hard. 

With  three  proud  colors  in  the  air — 

The  red,  the  white,  the  blue — 
Three  tiny  vessels,  trusting  God, 

Away  to  eastward  flew. 
Stout  hearts  looked  forward  on  the  path, 

Nor  dreamed  mischance  could   be, 

42 


THE  SAILING    OF  THE    YACHTS.  43 

Such  faith  had  each  bold  seaman  in 
These  graces  of  the  sea. 

Through  blinding  snow  and  cutting  wind, 

In  dreary  winter-time, 
They  swept  along  the  trackless  deep 

Like  some  fierce  Norseman's  rhyme. 
They  sped  as  speeds  the  wild  sea-bird 

When  bursts  the  tempest  wind; 
They  sped  as  speeds  the  swift  narwhale. 

And  leave  the  waves  behind. 

Sweeps  down  the  icy  northern  blast 

Along  their  watery  course, 
Yet  never  dreams  the  seaman  bold 

Of  shipwreck  or  of  loss. 
His  wishful  eye  is  fondly  bent 

Toward  an  alien  shore, 
And  watchful   for  each  offering  gale 

To  haste  the  journey  o'er. 


44  THE   SAILING    OF  THE    YACHTS. 

Speed  on,  ye  tiny  winged   barks, 

By  Yankee  seamen  manned, 
And  bear  glad  news  through  waves  and  wind 

To  yon  proud  Eastern  land. 
Show  them  the  blood  from  whence  ye  sprang 

Has  in  your  keeping  throve, 
And  that  a  native  of  your  land 

Is  one  remove  from  Jove. 

Show  them  that  when  your  manhood  wills, 

No  winds  can  stop  the  way; 
That  angry  waves  but  speed  you  on. 

By  darkness  or  by  day. 
Show  them  that  this  same  dauntless  will 

That  bore  you  to  their  shore. 
Within  the  land  you  left  behind 

Lives  in  a  million  more. 

Show  them  that  through  our  woeful  pains 
Still  throbbed  the  nation's  heart; 


THE  SAILING    OF  THE    TACHTS.  45 

That  sword  and   bayonet  has  not 

Yet  killed  the  nation's  art. 
Show  them  that  through  the  deadly  strife 

That  rent  us  to  the  core, 
We  still  had  men  enough  to  wield 

The  hammer  and  the  saw. 

So  be  your  mission  one  of  joy 

To  all  the  human  race ; 
And  hands  that  welcome  you  shall  be 

The  hands  of  courtly  grace. 
So  shall  your  presence  in  the  East 

Untie  some  Gordian  knots, 
And  make  the  song  of  songs  to  be 

The  '*  Sailing  of  the  Yachts.'' 


-RING  DOWN    THE    DROP  — I  CAN- 
NOT    PLAY." 

/^HI    painted  gauds  and  mimic  scenes, 

And   pompous  trick  that  nothing  means  i 
Oh  !    glaring  light  and  shouting  crowd, 
And  love-words  in   derision  vowed  ! 
Oh  !    crowned   king  with  starving  eyes. 
And  dying  swain  who  never  dies  ! 
Oh !    hollow  show  and  empty  heart, 
Great  ministers  of  tragic  art  I 

•'*  There's  that  within  which  passeth  show:" 
The  days  they  come,  the  days  they  go. 
We  live  two  lives,  on  either  page —  ^ 

The  one  upon  the  painted  stage, 

46 


''RING  DOWN  THE  DROP." 

With  all  the  world  to  hear  and  gaze, 
And  comment  on  each  changing  phase ; 
The  other,  that  sad  life  within, 
Where  love  may  purify  a  sin. 

Ring  up  the  drop,  the  play  is  on ; 
Our  hour  of  entrance  comes  anon. 
Choke  down  the  yearnings  of  the  soul: 
Weak,  doting  fool !  art  thou  the  whole? 
The  stage  is  waiting,  take  thy  part; 
Forget  to-night  thou  hast  a  heart; 
Let  sunshine  break  the  gathering  cloud, 
And  smile  thou  on  the  waiting  crowd. 


47 


Hear  how  their  plaudits  fill  the  scene 
Is  not  thy  greedy  ear  full  keen? 
Is  not  a  thousand  shouts  a  balm 
For  all  thy  throbbing  heart's  alarm? 
**To  be  or  not  to  be" — the  screed 
Is  listened  to  with  breathless  heed. 


48  ''RING  DOWN  THE  DROP:' 

O  painter  with  a  painted  mask ! 

Is  thy  brain  wandering  from  thy  task? 

Can   it  be   true   that   scores  of  years 

Do   not   suffice   to   murder   tears? 

Can   it   be   true   that   all  of  art 

Has   failed   to   teach   the   human   heart? 

Can  gauds,   and   tricks,   and   shout,   and     glare, 

The   deafening   drum,  the   trumpet's   blare, 

With   all   their   wild,   delirious   din, 

Not   stifle   this   sad   life  within? 

Pah,  man !   the    eager  people  wait ; 
Go   on   with   all   thy  studied   prate. 
Shall   you   not   feed   their   longing   eyes 
Because — ^because  a  woman   dies? 
What   cares   the   crowd   for   dying   wives, 
For  broken   hearts,    or   blasted   lives  I 
They  paid   their   money,   and — they  say — 
Living   or   dead,    on   with   the   play. 


'RING  DOWN  THE  DROP. 


49 


What!  staggering,  man?  why,  where's  your  art? 

That   stare  was   good;   that  tragic   start 

Would   make  your   fortune,   were  it  not 

That   it   rebukes   the   author's   plot. 
''My  wife   is  dying!"   He   ne'er  wrote 

The  words  that  struggle  in  thy  throat. 
*'Take  back  your  money,"  did  you  say? 
*'Ring   down   the  drop — I  cannot   play." 


Ring    down   the   drop ;    the    act   is   o'er ; 
Her   bark   has   touched   the    golden   shore, 
While,    reading   from   life's   inner   page. 
Stands   there   the   actor  of  the   stage; 
But   not   upon   the   cold,    white   corse 
Falls   there   a   word  of  sad   remorse 
From   all  that   crowd   who   heard   him   say, 
*«Ring   down   the  drop — I  cannot   play." 


THE  OLDEST  PAUPER  ON  THE 
TOWN. 

A   ND  so  old   Betsey  Green  is  dead ! 
The  oldest  pauper  on  the  town ; 
She  who  has  eaten  public  bread — 

Bread  of  the   most   unchanging   brown — 
For  six-and-thirty  years. 

Old   Betsey  Green  is  under  sod, 

Mixed   in  with    loads  of  human   clay ; 

No  surpliced   priest   appealed   to   God, 
And  challenged   in   the   light  of  day , 
A  waiting   crowd   to   tears. 

They  wrapped   her   lifeless,   withered  form 
In   the   scant   sheet  whereon   she  lay ; 

And  while    her   limbs  were   lithe   and  warm 
They  bore  poor   Betsey  Green    away, 
Lest   she   recover  breath. 

50 


THE   OLDEST  PAUPER   ON  THE    TOWN.       5 1 

They  nailed  the  county  coffin  down, 
With   many  jokes  on   her   who   died; 

And   one  old   pauper   on   the   town, 
And   only  one  old   pauper,    cried — 
From   selfish  fear  of  death. 

A   gravel-wagon  bore  the   load, 

Unwashed,  unswept  from  mud  and  mire ; 
The   driver  jolting  o'er  the  road. 

Lest  for  the  pittance  of  his   hire 
He   gave   it  too   much   ride. 

And   then   the  three-foot  pauper-grave — 
Unwilling   digged  by  pauper   hands — 

Where  one — half  idiot,   half  knave — 
With  whitened   hair,   in  waiting   stands 
For  Betsey   Green  who   died. 

He   shovels   in   the   frozen   clods. 

He   chuckles   as   they  rattle   down. 
And   to   himself  he   laughs    and   nods — 

This   oldest   pauper   on   the   town, 
Since   Betsey  Green   is   dead. 


52       THE   OLDEST  PAUPER   ON    THE    TOWN. 

*'I   can   remember  well,"   he  croaks, 
**That   she  was   fair   as   any  queen; 
And  well   to   do  were  all   the   folks 
Who  were  of  kin  with   Betsey  Green 
The   day  that   she  was  wed ; 

"  For   all   the   maids   in   miles   about 

Had   set  their   caps   at   Robert   Green — 
The    comeliest   lad  without  a  doubt, 
The   country-side   had   ever   seen — 
And   she   the   greatest   catch. 

**And   Betsey,   she   had  babes   as   fair 

As   though    she'd   chosen    gifts   for   each : 
They  had   their   mother's  eyes   and   hair, 
And  Robert's  wheedling  treacherous  speech 
The   selfish,  greedy  wretch ! 

'*He   spent  the   gold   her   father   gave; 

He  mortgaged   all   her   broad   farm-lands; 
She   toiled   and  watched,   to   earn   and   save ; 
He   never   soiled   his   dainty  hands, 
Or   browned   his   handsome   face. 


THE   OLDEST  PAUPER   ON  THE   TOWN.       53 

Tvvas  well   for   her,   the  neighbors   said, 
When,   on   one   cold,   December   day, 

They  found   him,  in  a   snow- wreathed   bed, 
Upon   the   ice-bound   public  way. 
Fast   locked   in   Death's   embrace. 

**For   Robert   loved   the   liquor-can 

Too  well   to   save   his   face   or   life : 
The   bloated   semblance  of  a  man 

Was   all   they  brought   the   stricken  wife 
From  where   he   late   had   lain. 

**Year   after  year,   by  day  and   night. 

Her   hands   and   head  were   never   still. 
Her   girls  were   fair,   her   boys  were   bright — 
Not   one  of  all   the   six   did   ill, 
In  wedding   or   in   gain. 

** Still,   Betsey   could   not   keep   away 
The   spectre  who  will   never  wait; 
And   so  one    stern    and   bitter   day. 

She   stood   before   the  workhouse   gate, 
To   beg   for   pauper  fare. 


54       THE   OLDEST  PAUPER    ON  THE    TOWN. 

"Time  flies!   time  flies!    and   Betsey's  dead! 
And   then,   next   comes   my  turn   to   die. 
A  hundred  years  were  on   her  head- 
Ten  years  the   elder   she  than  I — 
How  soon   shall   I   be   there  I" 

Again   he   stamped   the   frozen   ground, 
With  feeble   step   and  vacant  stare; 

Cast   one   long,   idle   look   around, 
And   left  old  Betsey  lying  there, 
To  wait  her  God   and  crown. 

Ah,  well !   poor  Betsey's  pauper  blood 

Runs   proudly  through   some   purple   veins ; 

No   base  suspicion   taints   its   flood, 

Of  this,   the  worst  of  earthly  stains — 
A  pauper  on   the   town ! 


DROWNED! 

^T  7  HERE   the  mud   lies   black   and   slimy 

Where   the  waters   sweep   along, 
Where  the  wharfmen,  stout  and  grimy, 
Heave  and  haul  with  many  a  song- 
Heaving  still 
With  a  will. 
Every  coming  dray  to  fill , 
Hauling,  with  a  laugh  and  shout, 
Bales  of  wondrous  size  about; 
Straining  to  the  ponderous  weight 
Of  the  good  ship's  wealthy  freight. 


Where  the  wide  and  swelling  river 
Rolls  in  one  perpetual  rhyme ; 


55 


56  DROWNED  I 

Where  the  gracious  winds  deliver 
Glorious  things  from  every  clime — 
Stuffs  to  wear, 
Spices  rare, 
Lie  in  heaps,  or  scent  the  air; 
Where  the  merchant,  full  of  gold. 
Welcomes  home  the  seamen  bold; 
Where  each  heart,  its  love  confessed, 
Clasps  the  loved  one  to  the  breast; 

Where  the  soft-voiced  land-breeze  ever 
Hums  its  tune  by  mast  and  shroud, 
Where  the  rough-tongued  master  never 
Ceases  crying  to  the  crowd — 
''With  a  haul, 
Lubbers  all. 
Stretch  your  muscles  to  the  fall !" 
Where  the  never-ceasing  flow, 
Man  above,  and  waves  below, 


DROWNED  t 

Night  and  day  pours  on  and  off, 
Mingling  at  the  city  wharf; — 

There  the  vagrant  boy  is  standing 
With  a  ghastly,  frightened  air; 
While  each  lounger  is  demanding 
What  he  sees  to  make  him  stare. 
Still  his  eyes 
Grow  in  size 
As  his  stammering  speech  he  tries ; 
And  his  finger  points  below, 
Where  the  waters  ebb  and  flow: 
Still  his  lips  give  forth  no  sound 
But  a  hoarsely-whispered  **  Drowned  !' 


S1 


Where  the  planks  are  green  and  rotten, 
Sending  forth  a  sickening  steam, 

Where  the  daylight  is  forgotten. 

And  the  wharf-rat  reigns  supreme — 


$8  DROWNED  I 

In  his  eyes 
Fierce  surprise 
At  his  toothsome  human  prize : 
Squeaking,  gibbering  forth  a  cry. 
As  the  crash  above  goes  "by ; 
Heeding  neither  man  nor  horse 
In  his  battles  o'er  the  corse. 

With  a  crowbar  to  the  planking, 
With  the  tackle  and  the  fall. 

With  a  heave,  and  with  a  clanking, 
Shivering  hands  give  willing  haul. 
There  he  lies  ! 
Open  eyes 

Turned  toward  the  sunlit  skies ; 

There  he  lies  in  oozing  slime, 

Heedless  of  the  place  and  time ; 

Heedless  of  the  gazing  throng, 

Heedless  of  the  clash  and  song. 


DROWNED  I 


59 


Sunlight  falls  like  shadows  fading, 

Still  the  song  goes  on  aloud — 
Still  with  gaze  that  seems  upbraiding 
Stares  the  dead  man  on  the  crowd. 
Hours  fly 
Swiftly  by; 
Sunset  darkens  on  the  sky, 
Ere  the  lingering  men  and  boys 
Hear  the  dead- cart's  rumbling  noise 
O'er  the  distant  stone-clad  ground. 
Coming  for  the  man  that's  **  Drowned." 


Had  his  limbs  been  clothed  in  scarlet. 

Were  his  linen  rich  and  rare, 
Had   he  been  the  veriest  varlet, 
Tainting  God's  own  perfumed  air, 
Would   he  lie. 
While  hours  fly. 
Staring  sightless  to  the  sky? 


6o  DROWNED  I 

Would  the  crowd  so  careless  stand 
If  a  gem  gleamed  on  his  hand? 
Would  they  sing  and  laugh  around, 
Were  he  better  dressed  when  *' Drowned?' 


THE    SKATERS. 

T    STOOD  on  the  frozen  river, 
Watching  the  skaters  go  by ; 
They  were  laughing  and  shouting  merrily 
Under  the  cold  gray  sky ; 
Lazily  swinging  their  way  along, 
Cheerfully  singing  some  snatches  of  song, 
Skimming  like  birds  on  the  face  of  the  waves. 
Swimming  like  fish  in  their  deep-sea  caves. 


I  saw  not  an  eye  but  sparkled, 

Not  a  step  but  was  careless  and  free ; 
They  were  laughing  and  shouting  merrily 
And   as  happy  as  happy  could  be ; 
Carefully  staying  the  speed  in  their  pace, 
Warily  weighing  the  chance  in  a  race, 

61 


62  THE   SKATERS, 

Winging    their   way   through    the    change   in   the 

throng, 
Singing  the  score  of  the  Skater's  Song. 


Over  the  ice,  like  the  swallows,  I  flvj 
With  light  in  my  heart  and  light  in  my  eye ; 
The  swiftest  of  runners  their  tardiness  feel 
When    my    feet    are    encased    in    the    glistening 
steel. 

Away  I  dash, 

Like  the  lightning's  flash. 
Or  the  racer  under  the  rider's  lash. 

Eyes  that  look  out  from  the  loveliest  face 
Laugh  at  my  follies  or  smile  at  my  grace ; 
The  life  of  my  blood  courses  up  to  the  brain. 
And  the  days  of  my  boyhood  come  to  me  again. 
I  look  not  back, 

Though  the  ice  may  crack, 
For  a  hundred  come  like  wolves  on  my  track. 


THE  SKATERS 


63 


Up  to  the  north,  in  the  face  of  the  gale, 
Breathless  we  turn,  spreading  out  for  the  sail; 
A  fleet  of  gay  steamers  rush  down  on  the  wind, 
Leaving   Time  and  the  sluggards  completely  be- 
hind; 

For  life  but  waits, 

I   At  Pleasure's  gold  gates, 
For  the  hours  we  spend  on  the  glorious  skates. 


I  stood  on  the  frozen  river, 

Watching  the  skaters  go  by; 
They  were  laughing  and  shouting  merrily. 
Under  the  cold  gray  sky ; 
Joyfully  greeting  the  calls  of  a  friend, 
Heartily  meeting  the  jibes  they  may  send, 
Kissing  the  lips  of  the  loved  ones  that  stay, 
Missing  the  lips  of  the  loved  ones  away. 


There  was  one  in  the  midst  of  the  skaters. 
A  beautiful  boy  of  ten, 


64  THE  SKATERS. 

With  a  dreamy,  dark-eyed  beauty, 
Who  flitted  among  the  men ; 
Laughingly  winning  his  way  along, 
Scarcely  beginning  to  feel  himself  strong, 
Stumbling  and  catching  his  step  from  a  fall, 
Tumbling  and  rolling  about  like  a  ball. 

There  was  one  in  the  crowd  of  watchers 

Who  watched  the  boy  in  his  play, 
Whose  eye  was  ever  upon  him 
Whenever  he  wandered  away; 
Smilingly  gazing  at  each  new  start. 
Silently  praising  the  child  in  her  heart, 
Willing  to  follow  the  steps  of  her  boy. 
Filling   her  soul  with  his  frolicsome  joy. 

I  stood  in  the  midst  of  the  skaters. 
And   looked  at  it  all  as  a  dream ; 

But  my  heart  was  suddenly  wakened 
With  a  single  death-like  scream ; 


THE  SKATERS,  i 

Fearfully  filling  the  chill  winter  air, 
Instantly  stilling  the  song  that  was  there, 
Crushing  the  light  from  a  thousand  of  eyes. 
Hushing  in  terror  a  thousand  of  sighs. 

Where  is  the  dark-eyed  boy? 

And  the  ever-watching  mother? 
A  shrieking  woman  clings  to  her  waist. 
And   her  hands  are  held  by  another: 
Terribly  standing,  in  accents  wild, 
Idly  demanding  her  beautiful  child, 
Staring  with  eyes  in  a  fire-like  glow, 
Tearing  the  lace  from  her  bosom  of  snow. 

There  is  running  to  and  fro, 
And  the  talking  of  many  men ; 

But  an  hour  goes  by  before  they  find 

The  beautiful  boy  of  ten ; 

Quietly  raising  him  under  their  breath. 

Earnestly  praising   his  beauty  in  death, 
£ 


66  THE  SKATERS. 

Putting  his  limbs  in  a  natural  way, 
Shutting  his  eyes  from  the  light  of  the  day. 

But  the  mother  has  broken  her  guard, 
And  lies  on  the  breast  of  her  child ; 
She  is  kissing  the  pallid,  oozing  lips 
That  the  waters  have  defiled ; 
Gloomily  pressing  the  baby-like  corse. 
Fondly  caressing,  and  mourning   her  loss, 
Trying  to  waken  the  voice  of  the  dead. 
Crying  to  God  for  the  soul  that  is  fled. 

She  has  raised  the  babe  in  her  arms. 

Rejecting  all  offer  of  aid ; 
His  arm  falls  over  her  shoulder. 

And   his  head  on  her  bosom  is  laid; 
Wearily  bearing    her  burden  of  death, 
Tenderly  caring  as  though  he  had   breath, 
Creeping  along  with  a  staggering  pace. 
Weeping,   and   kissing  the  little  pale  face. 


THE  SKATERS. 


67 


I  stand  on  the  frozen  river, 

But  the  skaters  no  longer  go  by; 
They  are  gathered  in  groups  at  the  landings, 
Under  the  cold  gray  sky  ; 
Woefully  talking  of  what  they  had  seen, 
Steadily  walking  where  late  they  had  been, 
Running  with  terror  at  every  sound, 
Shunning  the  spot  where  the  boy  was  drowned. 


GIVE    ME    DRINK. 

nr^ HERE'S    my  money;   give  me  drink? 

Fire  to  feed  my  hungry  blood, 
Drown  my  slightest  wish  to  think : 

Give  me  drink ! 
Drench  me  in  the  burning  flood, 
Until  life  and  soul  are  numb. 
Until  every  pulse  is  dumb, 

Give  me  drink ! 
There's  m}!-  clothing,  there's  my  food , 
Strip  my  limbs  and  leave  them  bare, 
What  care  I  how  people  stare? 

Give  me  drink ! 
They  know  not  the  fearful  thirst 
Of  what  they  call  the  cup  accursed — 
The  cup  in  which  my  brain's  immersed ; 

Give  me  drink  ! 

6S 


GIVE  ME  DRINK, 


69 


There's  my  children,  give  me  drink  ! 

Make  me  drunken  in  my  heart; 
I  would  sever  every  link, 

Ere  my  cup  and  I  should  part: 

Give  me  drink  I 
There  is  no  nepenthe  here, 
Unhallowed  by  a  woman's  tear, 
Unflavored  with  a  wise  man's  sneer; 
Their  notice  makes  the  draught  more  dear. 

Give  me  drink  I 
There's  my  health  and  peace  of  mind, 

I  will  give  it  all  to  thee, 
I  will  throw  my  life  behind, 

I  will  crouch  upon  my  knee : 

Give  me  drink ! 
There's  my  wife — my  wedded  wife  I — 
Once  I  loved  her  as  my  life  : 

What  is  wife  and  life  to  me? 

Give  me  drink  I 
Here's  my  standing  as  a  man : 


70  GIVE  ME  DRINK. 

Give  me  drink  I 
Here's  my  Christian  love  and  hope : 

Give  me  drink  ! 
Can  I  bear  the  social  ban? 
1   can  do  what  others  can : 
I  can  crawl,  and  steal,  and  kill, 
So  the  draught  be  at  my  will — 

Give  me  drink ! 
Here's  my  faith  in  all  mankind : 

Give  me  drink  ' 
I  scatter  it  upon  the  wind — 

Give  me  drink! 
And   here — oh,  here's  my  faith  in  God; 
I  will  not  bend  and  kiss  the  rod, 
I'll   trample  Heaven  iron-shod : 

Give  me  drink  I 
Make  me  drunken  in  my  brain, 

I  will  give  thee  wealth  and  fame; 
Make  me  drunken  in  my  heart, 
I  will  give  thee  spotless  name : 


GIVE  ME  DRINK. 


Give  me  drink ! 
Make  me  drunken  night  and  day;    • 
I  will  give  my  soul  away, 
God,  and  peace,  and  child,  and  wife. 
Love,  and  faith,  and  hope,  and  life! 

Give  me  drink  I 


^«IT    WILL    ALL    BE    RIGHT    IN 
THE    MORNING." 

T    STOOD  by  the  couch  of  my  darling, 

And  watched  the  light  in  her  eyes ; 
I  held  her  fevered  fingers, 

And  echoed  her  softest  sighs. 
But  the  time  wore  wearily  onward, 

Till  it  marked  the  sunset  hour, 
And  the  light  went  out  from  my  darling's  eyes, 

As  the  bloom  goes  out  from  the  flower. 

Ah  I  then  with  a  sickening  tremor, 

I  watched  for  the  soothing  balm 
That  should  come  at  the  hands  of  the  healer. 

And  shield  my  love  from  harm. 
It  came  at  the  hour  of  sunset  • 

A  grave  and  an  aged  man, 

72 


'IT  WILL  ALL  BE  RIGHT  IN  THE  MORNING,**  73 

Who  held  the  gift  of  a  healing  hand, 
As  far  as  a  mortal  can. 

He  counted  her  pulses  that  fluttered 

Like  wild  imprisoned  birds ; 
And  then,  with  a  glance  to  heaven, 

He  spake  these  cheering  words : 
'  It  will  all  be  right  in  the  morning." 

Oh !   skill  of  a  learned  leech, 
Those  words,  to  my  worldly  hearing, 

What  a  world  of  hope  they  reach  I 

It  will  all  be   right  in  the  morning!" 

I  murmured  them  through  the  night. 
As  I  watched  her  heavily  breathing, 

And  longed  for  the  coming  light. 
It  came  with  its  golden  sunshine, 

And  I  turned  to  my  darling's  bed, 
To  kiss  her  lips  as  a  welcome. 

But  I  found  my  loved  one  dead. 


74  ''IT  WILL  ALL  BE  RIGHT  IN  THE  MORNING. 

Dead !     Dead  with  the  morning's  coming, 

Dead !     Dead  with  the  words  on   my  ear, 
*'It  will  all  be  right  in  the  morning!" 

And  now  but  her  form  is  here. 
O   heart,   in  thy  wild  resistance 

At  the  stern  decree  of  the  Lord, 
Rebelling  to  part  with  an  atom 

From  out  of  thine  earthly  hoard ! 

**  It  will  all  be  right  in  the  morning  !*' 

It  was  truth  the  wise  leech  spoke. 
And  in  the  heavenly  sunshine 

My  darling  one  awoke — 
Awoke  from  a  dream  of  sorrow, 

To  dwell  in  the  far-oiF  lands, 
Where,   if  all  be  right  in  the  morning, 

Once  more  I  shall  clasp  her  hands. 


GOD    BLESS    YOUR    BEAUTIFUL 
HANDI 

nr^HE   hand  of  my  lady  is  soft  and  white ; 

For  the  sculptor's  skill  a  test; 
The  eyes  of  my  lady  are  deep  and  bright, 
And  her  lips  with  kindness  blest. 

She   moves  with  the   grace   of  a  crowned  queen, 

Who  walks  in  a  loving  land, 
But  of  all  her  charms  the  world  has  seen, 

There  is  none  like  her  beautiful  hand. 


And  I  marveled  much,   for  many  a  day, 
How  the  world  so  blind  could  be, 

That  it  cast  all  her  other  charms  away, 
And  only  the  hand  could  see ; 


76 


76        GOD  BLESS    TOUR  BEAUTIFUL   HANDt 

Until,   as  I  sought  a  lonely  street, 

One  bitter  December  eve, 
I   heard  the  fall  of  my  lady's  feet, 

And  a  sad  voice  moan  and   grieve. 

And  then  I  saw  her  muffled  form 

Draw  nigh  to  a  sightless  elf, 
And   about  it  wrap,  both  close   and  warm. 

The  shawl  she  had  worn  herself. 

Then   bending   her  head  with  a  nameless  grace 
To  the  beggar's  outstretched   palms. 

She  silently  gazed  in  the  hungered  face, 
And  gave  it  a  queenly  alms. 

The  old  child  caught  at  the  fingers  white, 

As  though  for  a  fierce  demand, 
And  said,  **  Oh,  what  would  I  give  for  my  sight ! 

God  bless  your  beautiful  hand !" 


GOD  BLESS   YOUR  BEAUTIFUL  HAND  I       77 


Since  then  I  marvel  no  more  if  the  thought 
Should  go  through  the  length  of  the  land, 

And   all    that  is   proud   of   the   earth   shall    have 
sought 
The  charm  of  my  lady's  hand. 


FARMER    BROWN. 

/^^LD  Farmer  Brown,   with  ruddy  face, 

Sat  stretched  before  the  chimney-place ; 
He  sat  and  watched  the  crackling  logs, 
The  purring  cat,  the  dreaming  dogs, 
That,  like  himself,  were  stretched  at  ease, 
Safe  sheltered  from  the  chill  night-breeze, 
And  with  the  freedom  comfort  brings, 
The  farmer  thought  these  selfish  things : 

**  Let  foolish  people  grieve  and  sigh 
At  care   that  does  not  come  anigh ; 
I'm  not  so  weak  to  wail   at  what, 
However  bad,   concerns  me  not. 
My  barns  are  full  with  golden   grain. 
My  limbs  are  stout  and  free  from  pain, 

78 


FARMER  BROWN. 


79 


And  out,  as  far  as  eye  can  see, 
The  well-kept  fields  belong  to  me. 

My  appetite  is  always  sound 
Whene'er  the  dinner-hour  comes  round 
And  faith,  betwixt  the  wife  and  me 
There's  not  much  difference,  as  I  see. 
She's  hearty,  merry,  stout  and  fair. 
No   touch  of  silver  in  her  hair; 
She  grows,  as  years  pass  swift  away, 
Much  better-looking  every  day. 


**  I  read  of  cities  lost  and  won. 
Of  deeds  of  bloody  valor  done, 
Of  fearful  battles,  fought  in  vain. 
With  scores  of  thousands  for  the  slain ; 
Of  ravaged  homes,  insulted  wives. 
And  children  fleeing  for  their  lives. 
But  why  should  I  repine  at  these 
Whc;n  they  do  not  disturb  mine  ease? 


8o  FARMER  BROWN. 

*'The  blood  shed  in  these  fearful  fights 
Does  not  disturb  my  sleep  of  nights ; 
The  thousands  that  they  choose  to  slay 
Take  not  my  appetite  away. 
This  mug  of  cider  by  my  side 
Does  not  across  my  palate  glide 
Less  smoothly  when  the  clash  of  war 
Comes  faint  and  harmless  to  my  door. 

*'Then  why  should  I  repine,  who  ne'er 
Am  troubled  with  a  single  care? 
Stop — let  me  think  I     Ah,  yes,  with  one — 
My  wandering  Will,  my  truant  son — 
He  whom  we  loved,  our  darling  child. 
So  handsome,  kind,  and  yet  so  wild  I 
A  word,  regretted  ere  its  birth. 
Sent  Will  a  wanderer  o'er  the  earth. 

'*  If  Will  were  but  at  home  again. 
The  world  might  war  for  me  in  vain. 


FARMER  BROWN, 


8] 


A  knock  !    Who's  that?    Come  in?    Ah,  Jones  !" 
The  farmer  cried,  in  cheery  tones. 
*  Walk  in  !    Sit  down  !    Here,  wife,  a  light  I 
What  brought  you  out  this  stormy  night? 
Why,  man,  your  face  is  stretched  as  long 
As  any  tramping  beggar's  song." 

•*  Ah,  Neighbor  Brown,  it  grieves  me  sore 

To  enter  thus  your  welcome  door. 

The  news  I  bear  is  very  sad: 

Your  son "  '*  Good  Lord,  what  of  the  lad?" 

'*Your  son  was  killed  at  Shiloh  fight; 

He  died  while  battling  for  the  right. 

So,  Neighbor  Brown,  bow  to  God's  will ; 

He  knows  best  when  to  save  or  kill." 


Poof  Farmer  Brown,  with  starting  eyes, 

Stood  now  erect.     With  mournful  cries, 

*0  Lord!"  he  said,  *' what  have  I  done. 

That  thou  shouldst  take  my  only  son?" 

F 


82  FARMER  BROWN. 

And  then  a  something  whispered  loud, 
•'Thou  selfish  man,  whom  God  endowed, 
Take  to  thy  heart  this  lifelong  blow, 
And  learn  to  share  thy  fellow's  woe !" 


THE    PATTER    OF    LITTLE   FEET. 

/^VER   my  head,  in  the  morning  early, 

I  heard  the  patter  of  little  feet, 
Rising  above  the  hurlj'-burly 

Out  in  the  fast-awakening  street. 
I  like  my  nap  in  the  morning  early — 

That  drowsy,  sleeping,  waking  time — 
And  am  apt  to  give  way  to  a  touch  of  the  surly 

With  one  who  breaks  on  its  soothing  rhyme, 


And  so  this  morn,  when  I  heard  the  clatter, 

I  turned  uneasily  in  my  bed. 
And   bothered  my  brain  to  guess  the  matter 

With  the  little  ones  pattering  over  my  head. 
My  nap  was  gone,  and  in  humor  sulky 

I  stretched  a  loud  and  imperious  yawn, 

83 


84  THE  PATTER   OF  LITTLE  FEET. 

And  then,  with  a  word  both  big  and  bulky, 
I  blessed  the  hour  those  babes  were  born. 

With  a  knitted   brow  and  a  hasty  toilet. 

I  made  up  my  mind  as  I  mounted   the   stairs, 
Whatever  the  fun,  I  would  quickly  spoil  it 

By  coming  upon  them  unawares. 
I  never  had  seen  my  top-floor  neighbors ; 

This  only  I  knew,  that  the  tidy  house. 
Save  and  except  for  these  infantine  labors. 

Was  silent  and  still  as  a  baby-mouse. 

I  knocked  at  the  door,  and  a  moment  waited  ; 

The  noise  was  hushed  to  a  whispered  word  ; 
The  patter  of  little  feet  abated, 

And  a  tiny  hand  on  the  knob  I  heard. 
The  door,  with  a  labored  opening,  started. 

And  full  in  its  light  a  vision  appeared. 
That  carried  my  heart  to  the  days  departed, 

And   the  one  to  whom  it  was  ever  endeared. 


THE  PATTER    OF  LITTLE  FEET.  S5 

Oh,  vision  of  life  in  the  darkened  palace 

Where  I  have  enshrined  the  one  of  my  love  I 
What  vestige  remained  of  the  wrath  and  malice 

I  threatened  to  wreak  on  the  noise  above? 
What  memoried  thought  is  the  one  I  am  meeting? 
What   hands  are   they  stretched   as  I  entered 
the  door? 
*  Are  you  my  papa?"  was  the  baby-like  greeting; 
**Are    you    my    papa,    come    home    from    the 
war?" 

No,  darling,"  I  said,  with  a  choking  emotion, 
**  I    am   not  your   papa,    come   home   from   the 

war; 
I  am  only  a  waif  on  the  fathomless  ocean. 
With   no    one   to   love    me    the   weary   world 

o'er." 
With  no  one  to  love  you  ?"  the  baby  replies ; 
**  I   will    love    you   myself — ^}'ou    shall    be    my 

papa." 


S6  THE  PATTER   OF  LITTLE  FEET. 

And  I  caught  the  sweet  child  with  the  wondering 
eyes 
Up  close  to  my  breast  where  the  memories  are. 

Oh,  where  was  my  heart  as  I  lay  in  bed  dozing, 
And  the  noise  overhead  could  not  quicken  its 
beat? 
The  chambers  of  memory  surely  were  closing 
•  When    no   entrance   was   found    for   those   dear 
little  feet; 
For  had  I  the  riches  we  read  of  in  story, 

I    would    give    up    the    whole    to    sweep    away 
years — 
To  bring  back  the  pleasure,  the  wealth  and  the 
glory, 
The  patter  of  dear  little  feet  to  my  ears. 


OLD    NEWS. 


/'^H!    grandfather,  grandfather,  listen  to  me  I 
The   most   wonderful    news   has   come   over 

the  sea — 
The  most  glorious  news  of  the  battles  afar, 
Where   a   million   of    men   have   been   armed    for 

the  war. 

From  the  field  of  Magenta  the  Austrians  fled, 
And   a   score   of    their   thousands   were    left   with 

the  dead. 
O'er  the  slopes  of  Palestro  the  conquerors  bore 
The     eagles    of    France     through    a    torrent    of 

gore ; 
And    the     Austrian    legions    were    swept    in    the 

gale, 
As  the  husk  is  struck  off  by  a  blow  of  the  flail. 

87 


88  OLD  NEWS. 

Oh  I     grandfather,     grandfather,    read    the    great 

news; 
It  will  tell  you  the  chances  for  glory  you  lose ; 
It  will  tell  of  the  joy  for  the  victories  won, 
And  the  shouts  of  the  nations  for  deeds  that  were 

done. 
Dear  grandfather,  why  don't  you  hurry  away. 
With  your  bright-bladed  sword,  to  the  midst  of  the 

fray? — 
That  bright-bladed  sword  which  you  said,  in  my 

hand. 
Should  some  day  strike  blows  for  my  own  native 

land? 
Oh  !   grandfather,  what  a  great  thing  it  would  be 
Could  we  both  but  have  been  in  those  fights  over 

seal 

There  were   flashes  of  light   in  the   grandfather's 

eyes, 
\nd  a  chuckle  that  mingled  itself  with  his  sighs, 


OLD  NEWS. 


89 


As  he  shook  his  white  head,  with  a  half-smothered 
groan, 
.nd   knocked   out   his   pipe  on  the   brown   lintel- 
stone. 

Ah !    boy,    it    is    one    thing    to    strike     for    our 
lives, 

For   the    land   that  we   live  in,   our   children   and 

r 

wives. 
And  another  to  battle  with  halters  in  sight, 
Unknowing  the  quarrels  that  drive  us  to  fight. 
To  cut  and  to  slash  at  a  despot's  command 
Is    not    fighting,    my   boy,   for    your    own    native 

land. 


The    echo    that    comes    from    the    boom    of    the 

gun 
Is  lost  in  the  shouts  when  the  battle  is  done ; 
But  the   groans  of  the   w^ounded   and   shrieks   0/ 

the  slain 
Will  be  heard  in  the  echoes  again  and  again ; 


90  OLD  NEWS. 

They  will  sound  in  the  hearts,  and    De  answered 

with  tears, 
When   the   field   where   they   fell   is    grown    over 

with  years. 
The     news     of     a     fight    is     like     fresh-opened 

wine — 
You  must  quench  all  your  thirst  while  its  bubbles 

still  shine ; 
You   must  drink  while  the    perfume  is   fresh  on 

the  breath, 
For    the    dregs    are    a    mixture    of    sorrow    and 

death. 

1    fought,   my  brave  boy,  when  to  skulk  were  a 

shame 
That  could   never  be   wiped   from   the  line   of  a 

name ; 
I  fought  when  refusal  so  blackened  the  youth 
That  his  grandcliild  still  blushes  when  told  of  the 

truth ; 


OLD  NEWS. 


9J 


When    the   white    hair   of.   age   marched    proudly 

between 

"The  iron-limbed  man  and  the  boy  of  fourteen ; 
When  the  crack  of  our  rifles  on  Lexington  plain 
Was  echoed,  and  echoed,  and  echoed  again : 
There   were   echoes,    my  boy,   from    the   hills   to 

the  sea, 
In    the    hearts   of    a    million    who    longed    to   be 

free. 


With  us  there  was  nothing  of  glitter  and  gold- 
There  was  squalor  and   rags,  and   starvation  and 

cold ; 
There   were   barefooted    men,   who   were  tracked 

by  their  blood 
On  the  stone-jagged  road  or  the  icy-bridged  flood  ; 
There   were   men   who   had   sworn   by   their   foe- 
ravaged  lands, 
By  their  blood- darkened  hearths,  with  their  swords 
in  their  hands — 


92  OLD  NEWS. 

Who    had    sworn    that    their    kindred    should    see 

them  no  mere 
Till   the  land  should  be  free  from  the  curse  that 

it  bore. 
Those  were  times  when  the  battle-field,  gory  and 

red, 
Bloomed  with  flowers  perpetual  over  the  dead. 

The  news  of  those  battles  will  never  grow  old — 
They  grow  by  the  telling,  a  thousand  times  told  ; 
But  of  fights  that  are  fought  for  glory  alone. 
Ere  the  fighting  is  over  the  glory  is  flown. 
It  is  dimmed  on  the  crests  of  the  conquering  hosts 
By  the  pale,  blood}'   hands  of  a  legion  of  ghosts; 
It  is  washed  from  the  blades  of  victorious  chiefs 
By    the     heart-sweating     tears    of    a    million    of 

griefs. 
Yes !  even,  my  boy,  from  the  head  of  a  king 
It    is    trampled     and    crushed     like     a    valueless 

thing. 


OLD  NEWS. 


93 


When  the  battle  is  over,  the  scarlet  and  gold 
Shall  speedily  rot  in  the  blood-nurtured  mould; 
The  steed  and  his  rider  shall  stay  where  they  fall, 
And  the  stout  idle  worm  shall  be  master  of  all ; 
The  rains  shall  wash   down  all   the  proud   clotted 

gore. 
And  the  winds  bear  away  the  last  shreds  of  the 

war. 
Yet,   unless  they   have    stricken   for   freedom    and 

right, 
The  wails  of  the  dying  shall  fade  on  the  night; 
But  if  God  shall  be  with  them,  their  hearts  shall 

be  bold, 
And   the   news   of   their   battle   shall   never   grow 

old. 


MISSING:     PRIVATE    WILLIAM 
SMITH. 

OERGEANT!   enter  on  your  roll, 

*' Missing — Private  William  Smith." 
Death  is  but  a  passing  dream, 

Life  a  false  and  shadowy  myth. 
Comrades,  close  your  gaping  ranks  I 

He  was  of  the  first  platoon; 
Missing  Private  William  Smith 

Doubtless  will  be  heard  of  soon. 

Missing  Private  William  Smith 

^    Led  the  charge  that  turned  the  day  ; 

Through  the  thickest  of  the  fight, 

Step  by  step,  he  clove  his  way. 
When  I  last  saw  Private  Smith 

He  was  grimed  with  smoke  and  gore  . 

94 


MISSING:    PRIVATE    WILLIAM  SMITH,        95 

What  if  Private  William  Smith 
Should  be  heard  of  never  more? 

Comrades  I   soldiers  should  not  mourn. 

He  was  every  inch  a  man  I 
Men  have  fallen  in  the  fight 

Ever  since  the  world  began. 
Yet  I  would  I  knew  for  truth, 

Now  the  fight  is  past  and  done — 
Missing  Private  William  Smith 

Has  a  wife  and  little  one. 

Would  I  knew  that  clanking  chains 

Bound  his  iron  muscles  o'er  I 
Would  I  knew  a  prison  wall 

Held  his  limbs,  though  wounded  sore  ! 
Would  that  missing  Private  Smith 

May  be  heard  of  once  again ! 
Wounded,  captive,  so  that  he 

Be  not  of  the  nameless  slain. 


9^        AI/SSING:    PRIVATE    WILLIAM  SMITH 

Missing  Private  William  Smith 

Has  a  wife  and  little  one  ; 
She  was  once  a  love  of  mine, 

Ere  my  life  had  scarce  begun. 
I  should  hardly  like  to  speak 

To  her  of  so  strange  a  myth, 
When  the  war  is  over,  as 

Missing  Private  William  Smitli. 


I  WISH  THAT  I  COULD  RUN  AWAY. 

T~\0  you  remember,  chum  of  mine, 
How  forty  years,  or  more,  ago, 
In  days  when  we  were  wont  to  whine 

O'er  some  tyrannic  schoolmarm's  blow?— 
Do  you  remember  one  marked  day, 

When,  smarting  from  the  birchen  pain, 
We  packed  our  traps  to  run  away ; 

And  run  we  did,  with  might  and  main? 

Our  wealth,  in  one  newspaper  rolled — 
Two  shirts,  two  handkerchiefs,  a  top, 

Two  pairs  of  socks,  grown  somewhat  old. 
And  sundry  ears  of  corn,  to  pop ; 

Two  dozen  marbles,  several  strings. 
Slate-pencils,  and  a  choice  whip-lash, 

G  '  97 


98  /  WISH   THAT  I  COULD  BUN  A  WAT. 

Three  buttons,  and  some  minor  things, 
And  nineteen  cents  in  solid  cash  I 

We  wandered,  that  November  day, 

At  least  four  miles  away  from  home, 
When,  just  as  we  began  to  say, 

''How  sweet  it  is  to  freely  roam. 
With  every  hedge  a  sheltering  inn  !" — 

There  came  a  cold  and  drenching  rain 
That  wet  us  to  the  very  skin ; — 

That  night  we  slept  at  home  again. 

As  time  passed  on,  I  thought  and  laughed 
,  At  that  sad  escapade  of  ours, 

And  yet  the  thought  would  always  waft 

A  perfume,  as  of  memoried  flowers. 
I  find  that  with  my  growing  years. 

With  hair  well-streaked  with  certain  gray 
And  all  that  time  and  taste  endears, 

A  strong  desire  to  run  away — 


/  WISH  THAT  I  COULD  RUN  AWAT.         99 

To  run  away  and  be  at  peace, 

With  none  to  question,  none  to  claim : 
To  shut  away  the  world's  caprice, 

Its  turmoil,  falsehood,  and  its  shame ; 
To  run  away  from  struggling  men. 

Who  crush  their  brothers  in  the  dust- 
From  ledger,  cash-book,  ink  and  pen. 

From  cant,  hypocrisy  and  lust. 

To  run  from  crowded  cities,  where 

The  voice  of  man  is  never  still ; 
To  run  from  where  the  worm  of  care 

Is  throned  above  Almighty  will ; 
To  run  away  to  fields  and  flowets, 

And  listen  to  the  insect  hum — 
To  lie  forgetful  of  the  hours. 

Forgetful  of  the  time  to  come. 

I  sometimes  think,  good  chum  of  mine, 
That  day  ill-chosen  for  our  jaunt : 


lOO       /  WISH   THAT  I  COULD  RUN  AWAY. 

Should  I  again  to  run  incline, 

'Twould  not  be  in  November  gaunt, 

But  in  the  lusty  summer-time, 

When  birds  and  bees  sing  all  the  day, 

When  Nature  seems  a  pleasant  rhyme : 
That  is  the  time  to  run  away. 

Believe   me,  that  no  sex  or  age 

Forgets  that  legend  of  its  youth ; 
But,  like  a  bird  in  gilded  cage. 

Each  pines  for  liberty  and  truth  ; 
We  v^Tithe  beneath  some  w^orldly  pain. 

Refuse  its  mandates  to  obey ; 
Sigh  for  our  childhood's  days  again, 

And  'vish  that  we  could  run  away. 


THE    KISS    IN    THE    STREET. 

'T^HE  world  is  a  world  of  glorious  themes, 

The  world  is  a  world  of  wonder — 
A  web  and  a  tissue  of  beautiful  dreams, 

To  be  torn  by  the  world  asunder. 
The  world  is  an  image  of  beauty, 

The  world  is  a  type  of  bliss; 
If  the  world  would  but  do  its  duty. 

There  would  be  no  world  like  this. 


I  walked  on  the  street  on  a  sunshiny  day, 
I  walked,  and  I  watched  the  crowd — 

The  crowd  that  were  looking  so  happy  and  gay 
That  they  almost  shouted  aloud. 

I  held  by  my  hand  my  darling  girl. 
She  skipped  and  she  danced  along, 

101 


102^    ^  TH^  KfSS  IN  THE  STREET. 

^<^  A$f^^  ^^fxifdlil^e,  l^ii|jhed  at  the  hum  and  the  whirl 
Of  th^  countless  moving  throng. 

I  walked,  and  I  watched  the  myriad  mass 

That  was  sweeping  idly  by, 
And  it  made  me  glad  to  see  them  pass 

With  a  smiling  lip  and  a  laughing  eye. 
And  so  I  sang  to  myself  a  song — 

A  song  on  the  happiest  theme — 
To  the  crowd  that  was  slowly  passing  along 

Like  the  mythical  forms  in  a  dream. 

And  so  I  sang  as  I  walked  along, 

Led  by  my  baby  guide, 
And  a  man  came  out  of  the  midst  of  the  throng 

Who  walked  by  my  darling's  side. 
He  was  pale,  and  haggard,  and  marked  with  woe, 

But  his  clothes  they  were  rich  and  fine, 
And  a  diamond  gleamed  on  his  shirt  of  snow 

Which  I  wished  at  the  moment  were  mine. 


TH^  KISS  IN  THE  STREET.  IO3 

He  walked  for  a  while  with  a  downcast  eye, 

Then  stooped  with  a  sudden  bow, 
And  I  heard  the  moan  of  an  inward  sigh 

As  he  kissed  my  darling's  brow. 
In  the  crowded  street  we  quietly  stand, 

While  neither  offered  to  stir. 
And  he  softly  said,  as  he  pressed  my  hand, 

"  I  have  lost  a  child  Hke  her." 

Then  silently  passed  that  haggard  man 

To  the  midst  of  the  crowd  again. 
And  the  song  I  had  in  my  heart  began 

Was  hushed  in  a  throb  of  pain. 
It  is  many  a  year  since  that  sunny  day 

And  my  darling  lives  above; 
The  song  and  all  have  passed  away 

But  the  memory  of  my  love. 


"I  WOULD  THAT  SHE  WERE  DEAD 

'"  I  ^IS  a  night  in  the  cold  November, 

And  I  sit  by  a  hearth  of  my  own; 
The  fire  is  blazing  brightly, 

But  I  sit  by  its  blaze  alone. 
It  is  ten  long  years,  I  remember, 

This  very  self-same  night,' 
I  stood  by  this  hearth-stone  thinking, 

And  gazed  in  the  bright  firelight. 

That  night  of  all  nights  I  remember; 

I  had  drawn  to  my  loving  side 
A  girlish  form  in  her  beauty. 

And  proudly  I  called  her  my  bride; 
And  I  loved  her  fondly  and  dearly— 

So  dearly  it  seemed  like  a  dream, 

104 


'*/  WOULD    THAT  SIfE    WERE  DEAD T  I05 

And  I  stood  by  this  firelight  thinking, 
While  I  pictured  it  out  in  the  gleam. 

There,  far  in  the  deepened  shadow, 

I  had  built  me  a  home  of  love ; 
In  the  midst  of  the  lakes  and  the  forests, 

With  the  sunny  sky  above, 
I  had  children  playing  beside  me, 

I  had  wealth  and  a  true-hearted  friend, 
No  care  to  press  heavily  on  me. 

And  all  that  the  world  could  send. 

And  here,  in  the  embers  glowing, 

I  wove  me  a  wonderful  name — 
The  name  of  a  poet  and  patriot. 

With  a  world-wide  whisper  of  fame. 
But  above  all  these  pictures  of  glory 

There  was  one  I  had  lain  to  my  life : 
This  home  was  the  case  for  the  jewel, 

My  darling  and  beautiful  wife ! 


:o6         ''/   WOULD    THAT  SHE    WERE  DEAD P 

The  years  have  run  swiftly  to  nothing, 

And  I  sit  by  the  fire  and  stare 
In  the  glow  of  its  embers  vainly 

For  what  I  once  pictured  there. 
There  is  only  a  clouded  changing, 

Where  glimmers  of  light  come  out, 
But  before  I  can  trace  the  picture 

They  vanish  and  leave  me  in  doubt. 

Ah !  where  are  those  beautiful  pictures- 

Those  pictures  I  painted  in  light? 
And  why  do  I  sit  here  lonely 

On  this  chilly  November  night  ? 
'Tis  a  tale  of  terrible  import; 

I  tremble,  and  shudder,  and  start, 
•  Whenever,  by  day  or  by  darkness, 

I  tell  it  into  my  own  heart. 

I  worshiped  her  wondrous  beauty, 
I  praised  it  in  sunshine  and  storm ; 


«/  WOULD  THAT  SHE    WERE  DEAD r 


107 


Her  dream-like  face  in  its  glory, 

Her  delicate  roundness  of  form, 
It  was  part  of  my  love  to  tell  it; 

I  gloated  on  what  I  had  won. 
Oh,  would  that  my  tongue  had  been  speechless 

Before  tlie  wild  telling  were  done! 

As  soon  would  I  thought  to  have  doubted 

The  Source  of  eternal  life 
As  the  purity,  truth  and  honor 

Of  my  young  and  my  beautiful  wife. 
O  God!  in  thy  mercy  save  me 

From  the  memory  of  that  day 
When  she  fell  from  her  truth  and  honor, 

And  passed  from  my  side  away. 


I  have  stood  by  the  bedside  cursing, 
With  my  soul  in  a  tumult  wild, 

When  you  took,  in  your  gracious  wisdom. 
My  only,  my  heart-born  child. 


I08         «/    WOULD    THAT  SHE    WERE  DEAD r 

As  much,  O  God !  as  I  loved  her, 

I  bend  to  your  stern  decree, 
Though  it  tears  out  my  soul  when  I  say  it; 

She  is  better  in  heaven  with  thee. 

I  have  sat  by  this  fireside  trembling, 

While  the  wealth  I  had  madly  won 
Was  passing  away  from  my  keeping, 

Like  mist  from  the  morning  sun. 
It  was  something  to  mourn  for  a  moment, 

But  I  lived  in  the  world  alone. 
And  I  gave  up  the  gold  and  my  trembling 

With  a  single  silent  moan. 

I  have  drank  from  the  cup  of  sorrow, 
And  eaten  the  bread  of  shame. 

But  of  all  that  has  passed  before  me, 
I  was  still  in  my  heart  the  same. 

But  oh !  this  day  thou  hast  crushed  me — 
This  day,  of  all  days  of  the  year. 


"/   WOULD    THAT  SHE    WERE  DEAD  T         IO9 

Thou  hast  left  me  here  by  my  fireside, 
With  a  shivering,  deadly  fear. 

This  day  I  have  seen  the  woman 

Who  lay  on  my  bosom  for  years — 
The  woman  I  worshiped  in  sunshine, 

The  woman  I  worshiped  in  tears. 
She  was  old,  and  wan,  and  haggard — 

I  would  that  this  saying  were  all; 
But — she  wore  a  dress  that  I  gave  her — 

I  gave  her — ^before  her  fall. 

It  was  ragged,  and  torn,  and  drabbled, 

But  I  knew  in  an  instant  again 
The  horrible  shade  of  each  color 

That  burned  to  my  quivering  brain. 
I  have  seen  her  the  star  of  the  evening, 

Wearing  that  robe  of  death. 
When  my  heart  overflowed  with  the  praises 

They  spoke  of  her  under  the  breath. 


"/   WOULD    THAT  SHE    WERE  DEAD  r 

She  was  old,  and  wan,  and  haggard; 

She  was  bleared,  and  drabbled,  and  torn  ; 
But  she  was  not  worse  than  I  am, 

With  the  light  of  my  life  all  gone. 
I  shut  my  eyes  on  the  vision. 

And  I  bowed  my  stricken  head; 
I  only  uttered  one  silent  prayer — 

"  T  would  that  she  were  dead ! " 

I  am  sitting  here  in  the  firelight, 

But  I  cannot  trace  a  line; 
The  woman  I  loved  in  years  agone 

Stands  with  her  life  in  mine. 
God,  in  thy  mercy,  listen  to  me 

Ere  the  light  of  my  soul  be  fled — 
Listen,  and  grant  this  single  prayer — 

"I  would  that  she  were  dead!" 


WHAT   I   SAW. 

AMI  paler  than  is  my  wont,  my  love? 
Let  me  lay  your  head  on  my  breast; 
There  is  quiet  truth  in  your  dark  brown  eyes- 

In  the  eyes  that  I  love  best. 
You  can  twine  your  arms  about  my  neck, 

And  believe  me  all  your  own, 
While  I  tell  the  cause  of  my  whitened  cheek 
To  you,  my  love,  alone. 


There  is  sunshine  on  the  crowded  street 

And  the  day  is  superbly  fair; 
There  are  beautiful  women  in  jewels  and  gold 

Wandering  grandly  there. 

There  are  blooded  teams  that  spurn  the  stones, 

Tossing  their  heads  to  the  wind ; 

111 


112  WHAT  I  SA^V. 

Carriages  covered  with  pomp  and  glare, 
Cushioned  and  satin-lined. 

There  was  one  I  marked  for  the  silken  shine 

Of  its  proudly-stepping  bays, 
Till  she  who  sat  in  its  cushioned  depths 

Broke  full  on  my  startled  gaze. 
It  was  Madaline — she  whom  I  loved  so  well — 

Draw  thyself  nearer  to  me — 
When  I  was  a  boy,  and  she  was  a  belle, 

And  I  was  a  stranger  to  thee. 

She  would  let  me  hold  her  smooth  white  hand 

Till  I  shivered  with  passionate  dread ; 
She  would  press  her  burning  lips  to  mine 

While  I  held  her  beautiful  head. 
Yes !   while  I  held  her  head  to  my  breast, 

Just  where  your  own  now  lies — 
Twine  your  arms  closer  about  my  neck. 

And  look  me  full  in  the  eyes — 


WHAT  I  SAW.  113 

She  said  that  she  loved  me  better  than  life, 

But  ah !    not  better  than  gold ; 
You  have  heard  the  story  a  thousand  times, 

It  is  very,  very  old. 
He  cannot  wipe  from  her  crimson  lips 

One  single  passionate  kiss; 
He  cannot  blot  one  burning  word: 

Does  he  ever  think  of  this  ? 

Does  she  ever  think  of  the  wonderful  love 

That  held  her  above  the  skies  ? 
Does  her  frozen  heart  give  no  response 

From  its  tissue  of  living  lies  ? 
Yes !    I  watched  her  eyes  as  they  met  my  own, 

Her  cheek  was  far  paler  than  mine ; 
I  had  bountiful  time,  as  she  dashed  along. 

To  compare  her  beauty  with  thine. 

She  will  never  forget  that  autumn  day 

When  she  kissed  my  cold,  clinched  hand; 
H 


114  WHAT  I  SAW. 

When  my  trembling  passion  was  crumbled  away, 

In  a  moment,  at  her  command. 
I  had  terrible  thoughts  that  autumn  day, 

As  I  stood  by  the  waves  of  the  sea, 
But  oh  how  deeply  I  thank  her  now 

For  the  words  she  spoke  to  me! 

Lay  your  head  close  to  my  beating  breast: 

Madaline  married  for  gold. 
Do  you  feel  my  heart  how  warm  it  is  ? 

Madaline's  heart  is  cold. 
The  look  I  gave  her  that  autumn  day 

Has  frozen  its  every  vein; 
Madaline  never  will  know  what  it  is 

To  love  or  be  loved  again. 

Now  you  may  know,  my  own  sweet  love, 

The  reason  my  cheek  grew  pale; 
I  have  looked  on  the  terrible  gulf  I  have  passed, 

When  borne  on  the  blast  of  the  gale. 


WHAT  I  SAW. 


115 


Madaline — she  has  jewels  and  gold, 
And  silks  of  a  gorgeous  hue; 

I  have,  myself,  a  beating  heart, 
And  you,  my  love,  and  you. 


"PLEASE    HELP    THE    BLIND." 

"^T  7ITH  vacant  thought  and  wandering  step, 

One  warm  September  day, 
I  walked,  where  thoughtless  thousands  walk. 

Along  the  bright  Broadway. 
And  on  the  thoughtless  thousand  ears, 

Borne  by  the  autumn  wind. 
There  came,  above  the  crash  and  roar, 

A  moan — "Please  help  the  blind." 

Where  all  the  countless  crowd  went  on, 

By  silken  garments  swept. 
There  sat  a  man  whose  changeless  face 

Would  seem  as  though  he  slept. 
His  stolid  form  was  clad  in  rags. 

His  eyes  to  heaven  inclined, 

116 


^'PLEASE  HELP   THE  BLEXDr 

And  from  his  scarcely  moving  lips 
He  moaned,  "  Please  help  the  blind.' 


117 


O  God!   how  struck  the  dismal  cry 

Upon  my  wearied  heart! 
How  quick  compelled,  in  every  vein. 

The  sluggish  blood  to  start! 
An  echo  sprang  within  my  soul, 

With  all  my  years  entwined. 
And  mingled  with  the  hopeless  moan: 

O  Lord!  "Please  help  the  blind." 


"Please  help  the  blind"  whose  failing  years 
Point  past  the  dream  of  life; 
Whose  hearts  and  eyes  are  closed  alike 

To  misery  and  strife. 
Who,  blinder  than  the  beggar  blind 

That  pleads  upon  Broadway, 
Have  shut  alike  their  eyes  and  hearts 
And  thrown  their  lives  away. 


Il8  '^ PLEASE  HELP   THE  BLIND:' 

"  Please  help  the  blind  "  whose  pride  of  place 
Hath  kept  their  thoughts  above 
The  treasure  of  an  earthly  rest, 

The  purity  of  love. 
Who,  by  their  wandering  in  the  world, 

■  Have  lost  the  light  of  home. 
And  now,  with  cold,  contracted  steps, 
In  utter  blindness  roam. 

"  Please  help  the  blind "  who,  through  the  years 

You  gave  them  for  their  kind, 
Have  stretched  abroad  their  greedy  hands 

As  grope  the  veriest  blind. 
Who  know  no  end  but  lands  and  gold, 

And  now,  when  comes  the  night. 
Moan  prayer  on  prayer  through  weary  hours 

For  but  a  moment's  sight. 

And  while  my  prayer  ascends  on  high, 
Hear  thou  the  saddened  cry 


^'PLEASE  HELP  THE  BLIXD: 


119 


Of  one  who  walks  in  blindness  on, 
While  all  the  world  goes  by; 

Who  hears  the  moan  upon  Broadway, 
Yet  fails  the  path  to  find, 

And  echoes  in  his  heart  of  hearts, 
O  Lord!  "Please  help  the  blind." 


SOMEWHERE    TO   GO. 

'npWAS  on  a  moonlight  Sunday  eve, 

In  warm  October  time, 
I  sat  alone,  and  listened  to 

The  calling  churchbells'  chime. 
And  every  one  that  reached  my  ear 

Were  stranger  bells  to  me, 
For  I  was  in  the  stranger's  land, 

Far  o'er  the  distant  sea. 

I  took  my  glass  from  off  the  wall, 

I  gazed  into  its  deeps. 
And  pondered,  as  I  thought  of  Time, 

How  stealthily  he  creeps. 
The  wrinkles  mark  my  sunken  cheek. 

The  silver  tinge  my  hair, 

120 


SOMEWHERE   TO   GO. 


121 


My  eye  has  lost  its  lustre  now, 
And  speaks  a  world  of  care. 

Ah,  me!   I  cannot  help  the  thoughts 

The  chiming  bells  will  bring — 
Those  Sabbath  eves  when  I  was  young 

And  happy  as  a  king. 
The  sorrow  now  that  swells  my  heart 

I  had  not  learned  to  know, 
And  every  Sunday  night  that  came 

I'd  somewhere  then  to  go. 


I  have  a  memory  to-night 

That  fills  my  lonely  room — 
A  sunny  face,  a  winsome  smile 

That  lightens  up  the  gloom; 
I  have  a  memory  of  an  eye 

That  made  my  own  to  glow, 
On  Sunday  nights,  in  times  when  I 

Had  somewhere  I  could  go. 


122  SOMEWHERE    TO    GO. 

On  Sunday  nights,  with  extra  care, 

I  stood  before  my  glass, 
And  studied  that  I  should  not  let 

An  imperfection  pass. 
I  dressed  for  eyes  that  thought  me  quite 

A  model  of  a  beau. 
And  merry  were  the  Sunday  nights 

I  'd  somewhere  I  could  go. 

I  have  a  memory  of  some  curls 

That  often  swept  my  cheek, 
A  head  that  pressed  my  bosom  till 

I  lost  the  power  to  speak. 
I  have  a  memory  of  an  arm 

As  white  as  driven  snow. 
That  clasped  my  neck  on  Sunday  nights 

When  somewhere  I  could  go. 

For  I  was  young,  and  she  was  pure. 
And  all  our  dream  was  love — 


SOMEWHERE   TO    GO.  1 23 

I  thought  my  gentle  Abigail 

An  angel  from  above. 
The  future  was  a  casket  locked, 

It  opened  sure  and  slow, 
And  closed  upon  the  Sunday  nights 

When  somewhere  I  could  go. 

Ah!   well,  the  time  has  passed  away, 

And  T  am  here  alone; 
And  baby  Abbie,  whom  I  loved, 

Has  seven  of  her  own. 
The  dark-brown  curls  that  swept  my  cheek 

Have  lost  their  'wildering  flow; 
'Tis  thirty  years  of  Sunday  nights 

Since  I  could  somewhere  go. 


Yet  'tis  a  pleasant  memory, 
Though  I  am  here  alone, 

To  know  my  gentle  baby-love 
Has  seven  of  her  own. 


124  SOMEWHERE    TO    GO. 

For  I  am  sure  amid  those  loves 

My  own  must  slightly  glow, 
As  she  recalls  the  Sunday  nights 


When  I — could  somewhere  go. 


Then  let  the  years  roll  swiftly  by, 

And  leave  me  here  alone, 
To  listen  to  the  chiming  bells 

Of  unfamiliar  tone.  » 
I'll  live  upon  the  memories 

That  in  my  bosom  grow, 
Though  Sunday  nights  may  come,  and  I 

Have  nowhere  now  to  go. 


SWINGING    IN    THE     DANCE. 

TT  TE  met  where  harps  and  violins 
Were  singing  songs  of  mirth ; 
Where  creatures  floated  in  the  space 

Almost  too  fair  for  earth. 
We  moved  amid  the  surging  crowd, 

And  by  one  single  glance 
My  heart  was  lost,  for  ever  lost, 

While  swinging  in  the  dance. 


We  met  where  woods  and  waters  meet, 
Where  birds  the  music  made. 

And  to  her  listening  eyes  and  ears. 
My  love-lorn  tale  I  said. 

I  asked  my  pardon  from  her  lips, 
For  this,  love's  first  advance, 

125 


126  SWINGING  IN  THE  DANCE, 

And  that  she  would  return  my  heart, 
Lost  swinging  in  the  dance. 

We  met  beneath  the  sacred  dome 

To  consecrate  our  love, 
And  these  words  came,  as  though  they  had 

Been  whispered  from  above: 
"  My  darling,  I  could  not  return 

Your  heart,  lost  by  love's  chance. 
But  I  can  give  you  mine  instead, 

Won  swinging  in  the  dance." 


NOTICE 


This  volume  being  a  new  and  enlarged  edition,  the 
publishers  feel  it  incumbent  on  them  to  say  something  in 
reference  to  certain  of  the  poems  therein  contained,  espe- 
cially the  leading  poem  of  "  Beautiful  Snow." 

This  fine  poem  has  had  the  singular  literary  fate  of 
having  been  claimed  by  no  less  than  eight  or  nine  differ- 
ent persons,  several  of  whom  have  actually  disputed  with 
the  real  author  through  the  public  press  and  with  the 
publishers,  ending  only  in  their  shame  and  the  conviction 
of  falsehood. 

"  Beautiful  Snow"  was  written  by  Mr.  J.  W.  Watson — 
who  has  for  twelve  years  been  known  in  the  first  literary 
circles  of  New  York,  and  who  has  held  leading  positions 
on  the  daily  and  weekly  press  of  that  city — while  on  a 
visit  to  Hartford,  in  November,  1858,  and  published  in 
"  Harpers*  Weekly"  immediately  afterward.  The  poem 
having  achieved  a  wonderful  popularity  in  this  country 
and  in  Europe,  and  in  its  traveling  through  the  press 
become  mutilated,  we,  knowing  the  real  author,  purchased 
through  him,  of  Messrs.  Harper  Brothers,  the  copyright, 
and  published  it  in  this  enduring  form.  Its  great  sale  has 
warranted  our  belief  in  its  popularity  and  its  fast  increas- 
ing appreciation. 

That  all  false  claims  and  falsehoods  might  be  set  at 
rest,  we  have  combined  with  it  several  more  of  Mr.  Wat- 
son's poems,  which  will  show  by  their  beauty,  and  the 

st}le,  that  they  are  all  from  the  same  hand, 

127 


128  NOTICE. 

"The  Sailing  of  the  Yachts"  was  written  at  the  time 
of  the  fanaous  ocean  yacht  race,  and  was  thought  by  the 
"New  York  Herald"  worthy  of  insertion  in  its  editorial 
pages. 

''Ring  Down  the  Drop,  I  Cannot  Play!"  was  written 
after  a  circumstance  that  occurred  several  years  since  at 
the  Terre  Haute  theatre,  where  Mr.  McKean  Buchanan 
and  his  daughter  were  playing,  and  simply  follows  his 
words  and  tells  the  story  as  it  occurred. 

"  The  Dying  Soldier"  is  another  poem  that  has 
achieved  wonderful  popularity ;  and  it  is  a  fact  worth 
mentioning  that  this  poem  and  "  Beautiful  Snow"  were 
read  upon  one  night,  a  few  months  since,  to  audiences 
ranging  from  one  thousand  to  four  thousand,  in  seven  of 
the  great  cities  of  the  country,  including  New  York,  Phil- 
adelphia and  Boston. 

The  universal  press  of  the  country  received  the  first 
edition  of  this  volume  w^ith  the  highest  commendation, 
and  especially  spoke  of  "  The  Patter  of  Little  Feet," 
"  The  Oldest  Pauper  on  the  Town,"  and  "  Farmer 
Brown,"  and  of  Mr.  Watson  as  a  poet  of  the  highest 
order,  and  one  who  appeals  directly  to  the  human  heart. 

In  issuing  the  present  edition,  several  other  poems 
written  by  Mr.  Watson  have  been  added  to  it,  viz.  :  "  The 
Kiss  in  the  Street,"  "  I  would  that  She  were  Dead," 
"■  What  I  Saw,"  "  Please  Help  the  Blind,"  "  Somewhere 
to  Go,"  and  "Swinging  in  the  Dance."  These  poems 
possess  great  interest,  and  display  a  lively  and  pleasant 
fancy,  as  well  as  a  genuine,  hearty  sympathy  with  the 
joys  and  sorrows  of  humanity.  They  will  take  strong 
hold  of  the  heart  and  memory,  and  will  live  and  last  be- 
cause they  touch  many  chords  of  human  sj^mpathy. 


"^•^    ... 


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THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CAUFORNIA  LIBRARY 


